


The Adventures of Tristayne Feldspar: Life of the Party

by meganooooooooooo88



Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganooooooooooo88/pseuds/meganooooooooooo88
Summary: Note: This work is about an original character from a Dragon Age TRPG playthrough I have been playing in a while. Canon characters from the series might be mentioned, but overall the story takes place in the world of Dragon Age and isn't really about any of the in-game characters. It takes place after the events of Trespasser.Tristayne Feldspar, Ferelden's first (and only) dwarven Templar, traces rumours of travelers disappearing along the North Road to potential demonic activity, and is forced to reckon with an unexpected specter from his past.





	1. Part One

It was a beautiful fall day in northwestern Ferelden, the trees a bright blaze of colour, bear season nearly over as they were too busy preparing for the upcoming winter, and Tristayne Feldspar was on the hunt. Not for the abundant game that could be found and were safer to track given the status of the aforementioned bears. Not for the mushrooms that could be found under nearly every tree, though Tristayne was tempted because it had been a while since he had eaten anything more exciting than trail rations. No, Tristayne hunted for far less mundane quarry, as he always did - he was hunting a demon. 

A rumour had brought Tristayne here to the woods known as Maferath’s Glade, one he had first heard from trades in the port city of Amarantine, and that he had followed westward along the Northern Road. Each place he stopped the rumour was slightly different, but the core of it remained the same - people were disappearing without a trace near Maferath’s Glade, and strange noises and lights ha been heard coming from there at night for weeks. Tristayne knew the signs of demon activity from his years of templar training, and this fit them to a t. While he no longer quite considered himself a member of the Order, not even now that it was rebuilding under the guidance of the newly appointed Divine Victoria, once a Seeker herself. Still he hunted down demons and considered that his duty. Even though the last of the rifts in Ferelden had been closed months ago, still his services were sorely needed - there were more demons who had slipped through the Veil than ever before, and fewer people than ever who knew how to fight them. The templar order and Circles were rebuilding, but the losses had been great, in both manpower and knowledge. Even the Grey Wardens had not escaped the past few years of turmoil unscathed, and those that had, he’d heard, had been recalled to the far north for reasons no one seemed to know. This left the commonfolk of Thedas uniquely vulnerable. And if Tristayne could use his knowledge and experience to protect them, he would. 

And so he has spent the last few years since the Circles fell, at first protecting people from the mages and templars who were taking advantage of the chaos to become little more than bandits, then once the rifts opened, doing his best to stem the tide of demons that flowed through them. Even now some of the more clever of these apparitions continued to torment the populace, often in far-flung locations where they knew they could get away with it. He had gotten good at sussing out which rumours were more likely to bear fruit and which were just stories by a scared and traumatized populace. More often than not, he was right. And the more time he spent in Maferath’s Glade, the more he was convinced his instincts were right this time.  
Though Tristayne lacked the connection to the Fade and magic that the other races of Thedas did, when you spent enough time in places were the Veil was thin, you learned the signs, both metaphysical and mundane. There was no birdsong in this forest, no signs of deer or rabbits the goats that could be found literally everywhere in this part of the world. Once Tristyayne had crested a hill in the Hinterlands and literally tripped on one of the demons cursed things. He still had a scar on his right elbow from the horns, though of course if anyone were to ask him where he got it, he planned to lie. It wouldn’t be hard, most of the rest of his numerous scars were earned through much less embarrassing circumstances. 

Tristayne had not seen a single other person since leaving the North Road a couple of hours ago, but now he saw something to give him pause. Up ahead, further down the dirt track that could barely be called a road, was another dwarf. His shoulder was to the axel of his cart, struggling to get it out of a muddy rut. It reminded him of another life, when he traveled across southern Thedas with his family’s caravan, from Orzammar to Denerim and Val Royeaux, and everywhere in-between. Until the Fifth Blight struck, and darkspawn destroyed it all in blood and fire, and the trajectory of his life was changed forever. A powerful enough demon would know all of this, of course, plucking it out of his head the moment he entered this place, ready to use it against him. 

Still, he ran over to help. If it was a demon’s illusion, it would help him learn more about its nature. And if it wasn’t, then he helped a person in need. 

“Ho there friend,” Tristayne called out, putting his own shoulder to the wheel of the cart, and easily helping the much older dwarf right his cart back on the road. He was much older than Tristayne had initially assumed, most of his blond hair and beard completely gone to white. The way his beard was braided indicated he had been born belowground, not on the surface, and his gruff accent confirmed it. 

“Ancestors smile on you, my lad!” he replied jovially, clapping Tristayne on the shoulder while his bronto grunted. The hand was warm, and the bronto smelled as terrible as he remembered. “I nearly thought you were an elf with those smooth cheeks!” 

Tristayne laughed, mirroring the other dwarf’s mood. “Never heard that one before.” He had, in fact, heard that one before, but there was nothing to be gained by telling him that. 

“Don’t suppose you have time to help an old duster reload the cart, do you, lad?” 

“My name is Tristayne. Tristayne Feldspar. And I’d be happy to help.” Tristayne helped the old dwarf with his wooden crates of goods, mostly practical things like pots and pans, things regular folk needed and might not have access to easily if they didn’t live near a large enough town that had a blacksmith. Good quality too, stamped with the maker’s mark of surfacer blacksmith. He was loading his second crate when the other dwarf stopped what he was doing, like he had just remembered something important. 

“Wait. Feldspar? Like Feldspar Fine Caravaners?” 

Tristayne too stopped what he was doing. “Yes,” he replied. 

“I used to work for your pap. He took me in after I got kicked out of Orzammar, gave me work, introduced me to the right people so I’d land with my feet on the earth and not up in the sky.” 

“That does sound like him.” Tristayne’s father often picked up more than dwarven crafts when they made their stop at Orzammar. HIs mother had affectionately called it “gathering lost pebbles.” Once, she had been one of them. He remembered many of these people, most particularly how they all had the same look in their eyes, like they were always afraid the sky was about to swallow them whole. 

“I was sorry to hear about what happened to the Caravan once all the dust settled after the Blight. He was a good man.” 

“That he was. I don’t think I caught your name, friend.” 

“Ach, I hope you’ll forgive me absentmindedness in my old age. Name’s Vikram. Doubt if it will be familiar. I left the caravan right before you were born.” 

“Still, it’s nice to meet you. I feel like I have to tell you though, you really need to turn back. It’s not safe here.” 

Vikram squinted, finally noticing the worn symbol on his shield and breastplate. “So you’re that templars I’ve been hearing so much about. Thought it was just a story, honestly. The Chantry never had much use for our lot.” 

“I don’t really do this for the Chantry, anymore.” 

“Not that there is much left, though I hear they’re working real hard to change that.’ 

Tristayne shrugged. While he considered himself an Andrastian, he had never believed in the Maker in the same way that many of his fellow recruits did, literally and unquestioningly. He believed in the parts of the Chant about helping your fellow man, about pushing back against oppression. He believed in the woman who stood against the tyranny of the Tevinter Imperium and lost, but ultimately won. He did his best to live his life by those values. Or so he hoped. He didn’t particularly like getting into any of that by the side of the road in a demon haunted forest. “I really would feel more comfortable if you headed back to the North Road,” he finally replied. 

The other dwarf laughed, though it came out as more of a croak. “Why? Are there a bunch of flesh eating apostates hiding in these woods?” 

“Are you saying you haven’t heard the rumours about people disappearing?”

“Course I have, boy, why do you think I’m here? There’s a village down this road, name of White Birch. They probably haven’t seen a caravan in weeks. I saw a business opportunity.” 

“While that logic is sound, you should know these rumours are not baseless.” 

“And you’re what, going to take care of it single handedly with your axe and your little shield?”  
“Well, yes.” 

“Those Chantry folk must have done more of a number on you than I initially thought. You got stone between those ears instead of a brain?” 

Tristayne felt something change in the air, a small shift and tingle against the skin. He slowly started moving his hand towards the haft of his axe. This was the moment where the demon revealed itself, dissolved its illusion and showed its true face. Vikram had turned away from him, started loading the crates again. He didn’t notice what Tristayne was doing. 

The templar waited one beat, then two, but nothing happened. Vikram finally noticed Tristayne had stopped and gave him a weird look. Tristayne hid his axe hand behind his back. Still the old dwarf remained an old dwarf. He hurried to continue helping him finish reloading his cart. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Vikram said once they had finished. “There’s a tavern about half a mile eastward up the North Road from here. The Sticky Griffon. Bit of an off name, but they brew a peat ale that almost reminds me of Orzammar. I’ll wait there, let you do whatever it is you’re going to do, and when you’re done you come find me and tell me if White Birch is worth my time.” 

“I think that sounds like a sensible plan.” 

“And I still think all this sunlight had addled your surfacer brains, but better safe than sorry. “  
“That’s all I want, Vikram. Is for you to be safe. Make sure you don’t drink the place dry. I’d like to try this peat ale that has even low praise from someone who has had the real thing.” 

“I can’t make any promises,” Vikram said as he clambered up and took the reins, forcing his bronto to turn back around. He clapped Tristayne on the shoulder again. “Good luck, son of the Stone,” he said, and Tristayne felt strange at the touch, like a jolt of energy that whizzed through him and swiftly disappeared. But the other dwarf was already gone, and lifted a hand in farewell. Tristayne waited until he was out of sight entirely before moving on. 

Sure enough, the dirt track eventually did end at a village, or more accurately, a handful of thatched huts grouped relatively close together. The people who lived here were more hunter than farmer judging by the racks of deer hides curing in the sun, and the stack of bows that were sitting by a fire in the middle of being restringed. But there was not a soul in sight. 

He had been to many settlements like this one over the years, and while small, they were always hives of activity - children running and weaving through the huts, older folks cooking and skinning game, or curing hides and absently minding the children. There was none of that activity here, and the place looked like its occupants had stopped in the middle of whatever they were doing and just left. There were no signs of struggle, or violence. A pot of stew had bubbled over a fire and now was little more than a black, burned mess, and other food stores remained undisturbed even by animals. Those huts that had doors he knocked on but still no one answered. Whoever had lived here was well and truly gone, with no hint of where they could have gone. Tristayne was glad he had managed to convince Vikram to turn around. 

There remained one hut unexamined and even though Tristayne did not think it would tell him anything he didn’t already know, he decided it was best to be thorough. As he approached, the creeping, tingling feeling he had been experiencing ever since he entered these woods increased, and the closer he got to the structure the stronger it got, until a fierce buzzing plagued his ears. Still, he pushed through it, and tried to open the door. Oddly, it was locked. Tristayne put his shoulder to it and pushed, and the long branches the door had been made of eventually cracked, and he used his axe to hack the rest of the way through. The door had been secured from the inside with a thick pine beam but it had been installed by someone of a taller stature than Tristayne, so he hacked away below the beam and was able to create an opening large enough for him to walk through easily. 

The hut was dark, unnaturally so, given it was midafternoon and sunny outside the door. It took Tristayne a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark and he noted that in addition to the beam, the door had also been fitted with a thick iron lock of good quality that and that probably cost about as much money as this entire settlement had, if not more. It was not a good sign. The hut contained nothing but a heavy looking metal chest which, strangely, was not locked. 

Tristayne kept one hand on his axe as he walked slowly towards the chest. He used it to flip the lid open, and peered inside. He was not expecting what he found, not jewels or gold or items of obvious value, but a small wooden figure half covered in moss. It was so old you could barely tell what it was supposed to depict, but based on its age and what he could discern about its style, he would guess it was Almarii, or at least from around that period. But there was something elven about it too, and maybe dwarven? He shook his head, sure his eyes were being tricked. Regardless of style, it was something that was only valuable to scholars or maybe collectors, but not to hunters in the Ferelden wilds. 

The dwarven templar felt himself unable to look away from the artifact, and compelled to touch it. As his fingers closed around the mossy wood, Tristayne was overwhelmed with fatigue, and felt his eyes start to droop shut. His last memory was of his body hitting the ground, hard, as he fell into a deep and unwakeable sleep.  
***

“I’m undergoing the rite of tranquility tomorrow,” she said, her small and piercing black eye more determined than he had ever seen them, and it felt like the world had disappeared beneath him, and nothing kept him tethered to the earth anymore. 

“But you passed your Harrowing!” he protested, the words coming out more emotionally than he intended. 

“Barely. I barely passed it. And every day, every time I go to sleep, I can feel the demons testing me. They know I’m weak, Tristayne.” She tucked her chin length black hair behind one ear, and her feet beneath her on the stone bench they were sitting on. They were meeting in their usual spot, tucked away in the Circle’s Chantry. Tristayne was technically on duty, but the place was empty, The Chantry sisters having left to take their evening meal. It was one of the few places in the Circle that afforded any privacy, a luxury for all but the most high ranking enchanters and templars. 

“You are the least weak person I know,” he replied quietly. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, you’re only making this harder.” Her voice was small, and the looming statues of Andraste that flanked them served to make her look smaller than she already was. She was small for a human, closer in stature to an elf, and often was mistaken for one until people saw her ears. They both joked often about being the shortest people in the Circle. They had become friends when Tristayne was on late night library duty and she had needed a book she couldn’t reach. They had both laughed when they realized they were the only people there and neither of them could be able to easily reach that book. Instead they found a sturdy chair, and Tristayne had balanced her on his shoulders and they giggled at the absurdity of the situation. 

“You won’t be able to do magic anymore.” 

“That’s the idea.” 

“You won’t be able to laugh.” 

She looked away from him then. “It’s a small price to pay to no longer be so afraid.” 

“What if you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” 

That made her smile, though it was tinged with sadness. “Impossible.” She took his hand, and he felt his cheeks redden, his heart race at the contact. “I want you to understand, no one is making me do this. And I want you there.” Tristayne pulled his hand away like it had been burned.

“Avia, no! You can’t ask that of me!” 

“There has to be templars attending anyway. And I want to know there is someone there that cares about me. As a person, not just as a mage.” 

“You have other friends.” 

“But you are my BEST friend. And I thought you would understand. You don’t have a connection to the Fade either, and that doesn’t make you less of a person.” He looked into her eyes then, and the depth of feeling shone out of them. She was determined to do this, and when Avia Cresford set her mind to something, she was rarely swayed. 

Tristayne sighed, and found himself nodding, and as soon as he had his next break he found himself knocking on the knight-captain’s door and requesting to attend the next rite of tranquility. The knight-captain accepted the request eagerly. It was not a popular assignment. 

***

Tristayne woke with a nasty headache, like he had been hit over the head, but a quick inspection didn’t indicate he had any head injuries - no cuts, n o goose eggs, no tender spots. As he slowly came back to himself he realized he was in the most luxurious bed he had ever slept in, the curtains closed tight to keep out any sunlight. The pillows and mattress were made out of real goose down, the bedding a slippery red satin that was cool to the touch. It was the bed of nobility. He also realized that he had lost his armour and clothing. 

He could feel his cheeks flushing at the thought of someone else undressing him, and he kept the sheet wrapped around his waist as he climbed out of the bed. Someone had helpfully left a stepstool, which Tristayne was grateful for as the bed had not been designed for dwarves. The room was equally richly appointed as the bed, in shades of red and blue in all the most expensive fabrics - silk, satin, velvet. The place was eerily quiet, like the woods had been, but someone had laid out a hearty breakfast of porridge, fruit preserves, bread, and cream and a warm bath had been laid out in a corner, the water still steaming. Whoever had prepared all of this was nowhere to be seen. 

He briefly questioned the wisdom of eating mystery food, but his nose and stomach did not agree. He had no idea how long he had been out, but his belly growled like it had been at least a day. He took a tentative spoonful of porridge, and when nothing bad happened, tucked in. It was simple food, but impeccably prepared, and spiced with things he hadn’t been able to afford since leaving the Circle. Say what you would about Circles, but they fed their occupants, and usually well. 

Once he finished eating he decided to bathe, and found the water was still warm even though he had spent quite some time eating. It was undoubtedly magic, but there wasn’t anything he could do with that information until he found some clothes. Despite being asleep for who knows how long, he dozed a little in the bath, and when he awoke, his breakfast had been cleared away and a suit of clothing had been laid out on the freshly made bed. 

Tristayne examined the clothing, which was still not his own, instead a rich suit of blue silk and velvet, trimmed with gold flowers, and finer than anything he had ever worn in his entire life. On top of the clothing was an envelope with his name on it. He opened it, and inside was an invitation which read:  
Tristayne Feldspar  
Nosy templar of fine face  
Hunting demons to disgrace  
On this day your past embrace  
At the ball of Manor Vetrasse

Tristayne had to stop himself from groaning. He had no doubt now that he had been taken to the demon’s lair, and there was nothing worse than a demon who thought it was clever. This demon not only thought it was clever, but also funny. And the worst part, it had learned to rhyme. 

He had little choice but to put on the clothes and see what happened. He got dressed and searched the room for his armour or weapons, uncaring of the state he left the room in. Let the demon clean it up. It clearly knew how. He found nothing though. First order of business would have to be finding where it stashed his things. Demons liked to hold onto mortal possessions, and listen to their stories, and the stories beneath the stories. 

He tried the door and it swung open at the barest touch, as if it had been waiting for him to leave. An average person might find this frightening, but it was nothing Tristayne hadn’t seen before. Demons were surprisingly unimaginative - he anticipated he was going to encounter a lot of haunted house hijinks, and wished he still had his shield to deal with all the small housewares and books he knew the thing was planning to start throwing at him. 

The hallway outside his room was dark, the windows both shuttered tight and obscured by thick velvet curtains. He tried opening one and had no luck. From what he could see, the house was Orlesian in style, likely built during the occupation and abandoned once it was over. Western Ferelden was dotted with such places and some were built in remote enough places that they had not been torn down or reappropriated by the locals. This place was remarkably well preserved, though whether that was reality or the work of the demon’s illusions he wouldn’t know until after it was vanquished. Experience told him it was probably the latter. 

Tristayne tried every door he came across, but each was secured tightly. The demon was clearly trying to herd him somewhere, but where and for what purpose he had no idea. He felt naked without his weapons and armour, and his hands itched to hold his axe. If he couldn’t find his weapons he was going to need to improvise something, and fast. He was only alive now because it amused the demon, and once it bored of whatever game it was playing with him, it wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He finally found a door that would open, and it led into a vast parlous lined with overstuffed couches and chaises. There were two doors into the room besides the one he came though, but he was unable to open either. The door behind him had also been locked. He signed and ran a hand through his wavy dark hair when he heard one of the doors behind him open and click shut. 

He spun around, ready to fight. A petite woman stood there, her long black haired dressed in an elaborate Orlesian hairstyle 30 years out of fashion, clad in a yellow gown with a tight bodice and voluminous skirt that left her shoulders bare. Her small black eyes flash with irritation. Tristayne was momentarily agape. She was the spitting image of Avia. This wasn’t the first time a demon had tried to use her image against him, and he only hesitated a moment before rushing her, taking her out at the knees and knocking her over. 

Usually what happened next was whatever creature had taken her form would transform back to defend itself, or the illusion would dissipate entirely. Neither happened here, and the woman went down with soft, surprised “oof,” her satin skirts and crinoline falling around them both as the templar straddled her and held her arms down. She was wearing a musky, spicy perfume, and her bare arms were warm where he touched them. If she was an illusion, she was certainly the most realistic one he had ever encountered. Hair skin was soft and unblemished, and he felt the movement of her chest beneath him as she breathed in and out. He felt her breath against his neck. 

“Show yourself, demon,” he said, voice hard. 

“Ah, so that’s what you think,” the woman beneath him replied. She didn’t really sound like Avia, her voice deeper and huskier than the woman he remembered. She sounded unconcerned at her predicament, amused, even. “Here is what you will do next. Take one of those ridiculous jeweled pins from my hair, and scratch me with it. If I’m a demon, I’ll transform. I won’t be able to help it. If I’m not a demon, I’ll bleed, and we can have a conversation like civilized people.” 

Tristayne looked at her hair, which had mostly fallen free around her head, then at his hands, where he was holding her down. He would have to let go to pull one of the pins free. She saw where his thoughts were going and said, “I’ll stay still if you let go of me. I’ve had worse views.” She smiled crookedly, and her eyes danced with amusement as she noted his blush. 

The dwarf let go of her with one hand and she stilled, doing her best to move only to breathe. He pulled a pin free, noted the jewels with citrine and that it was plated with gold. Expensive, like everything else in this place. An exceptionally powerful desire demon then, or maybe envy or pride. Hopefully not the latter, for they were among the most powerful. He did his best to pull the pin free carefully, difficult with only one hand, and he felt a twinge of sympathy as it caught in her long hair and her face pinched with pain. It took all of his willpower not to whisper an apology. 

“I’d recommend doing it on my wrist,” she said, once the pin was finally free. “The skin is thinner there.” 

He sat up and took her wrist in one hand. He could feel her pulse thudding against his fingers. He drew the pin horizontally across her wrist with just enough pressure to pierce the skin, and couldn’t help apologizing this time as she bit her lip against the pain. Blood welled, bright scarlet against her fair skin. She remained human. 

Tristayne gasped and rolled off of her, offering a hand to help her up. She took it, and he turned away as she lifted her skirts to rip a piece of crinoline to tie around her still bleeding wrist. “I hope you'll forgive my manners,” he said. “You can’t be too careful where demons are involved.” 

“I took you for a caravaner or some other hapless traveler at first, but you’re here for the demon too, aren’t you?” The woman had pulled the rest of the pins out of her hair and it fell around her shoulders in a black curtain. It was longer than Avia had ever worn it, nearly to her waist, and she was plaiting it over one shoulder as she talked, tying it off at the end with another strip of her underskirts. 

“Too?” The dwarf asked.

“Ah, I realize I haven’t introduced myself,” the human woman shook her voluminous skirts. “I’m Viorica Creswell, mage of the Inquisition.” 

“I thought the Inquisition had been disbanded.” 

“Officially, we are downsized. But the Inquisitor still hears about things, and if it gets passed along to the right person who wants to take initiative on the information, well the Chantry and nobility can’t exactly say no.” 

“I’m Tristayne. Tristayne Feldspar.” 

“Wait. Ser Tristayne Feldspar?” 

“I’m not technically a member of the Order anymore, I don’t use the honorific.” 

“Oh please. The templars in Denerim love you. They tell stories about you like you’re one of their own. 

Tristayne felt himself blushing. “You seem to know an awful lot about it, for a mage.” 

She shrugged one shoulder, not noticing or caring as her dress slipped slightly farther down her arm. “It’s my business to know.” She hitched her skirts improperly high and marched over to try the doors. They were still sealed tight. “So how much do you know about the Manor Vetraisse?”

Tristayne, still in a bit of shock that Viorica was a real woman who looked exactly like his friend, was a bit slow to reply. “The what?” 

“The Manor Vetraisse. The place that we’re in.” 

“I know the name from the weird invitation I found in my room.”  
“Wow, you really are a templar.” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that templars have a tendency to cut down problems first and ask questions later. It’s not your fault, they train you that way.” 

“I do NOT -” 

“Be honest, you’ve been looking for your weapons since you realized you lost them.” 

Tristayne really had no retort for that. It was exactly what he had been doing. She tossed him a couple more hairpins and he caught them. “If you go for the eyes it’s better than nothing,” she said with a wink. Tristayne decided he was better off not knowing how she knew that. “Where was I?” Viorica continued, as she started scanning the walls and ceiling with eyes and hands. “So Manor Vetraisse was built during the Orlesian occupation by a man named Gaston Vetraisse. Now Gaston Vetraisse was a mage, but a mage from one of Orlais’s most powerful noble houses. First cousins to the emperor, family members in high placed positions in both Chantry and State and Circle. The whole deal. And as you may know, being a mage from the nobility in Orlais is very different than it is for anyone else.

“So Gaston Vetraisse, he’s in charge of the mages from the Val Royeaux Circle who have come to Ferelden as part of the occupation army. Basically, he’s their commander, and reportedly he even had the jacket to prove it. Long story short, he does well enough for himself here that he is gifted these lands and a minor title to go along with it, and he uses his considerable wealth and influence to build the manor we’re in now in about six months.”

“Is there a point to this history lesson?” Tristayne asked, unsure of where she was going with this. 

“Yes. Now, Gaston was a bit of an eccentric, and he loved to impress people by finding novel ways to use magic, and he was also obsessed with dwarven engineering that used no magic at all, particularly the golden age of the dwarven empire, and he liked to try to combine these interests. He also loved puzzles. It’s said he had the manor built entirely from blueprints that he himself had drawn, and he used multiple building crews to build different parts so that no one knew every part of the design. It’s said this place is full of trap doors, false hallways, doors to nowhere. Only he knew how to navigate the place in full, not even servants did, and it’s also said that when he wanted to get rid of a political or personal rival, he held a party here that his target simply never returned from.” 

“And people didn’t catch on?” 

“Of course they did. But you know Orlesians. They never say no to an invitation, especially if it’s from someone they hate. And definitely not to a cousin of the emperor. “ Viorica had been knocking along the walls at this point, and she stopped in front of a large mirror that was flanked by identical golden candelabras in the shape of stampeding horses that were attached to the wall. Both were full lit, and the mage started blowing out each candle one by one. “Now, part of hte secret to navigating the house is magic.” She called up a palm full of veilfire and started relighting the candles with it. Once the final one glowed green, there was a click, and the mirror in front of her started to move upwards into the wall, revealing a secret passage. Viorica clapped in triumph, while Tristayne was left dumbfounded. 

“How in holy Andraste did you know any of this!?”

“I told you - it’s my business to know. Now come on.” 

Tristayne had to trot to keep with her as she continued down the dark corridor, their way lit only by the veilfire in her hand. “That doesn’t really answer my question,” he said when he caught up. “I followed rumours of disappearances in this area, no one mentioned the manor at all, and I think the demon itself brought me here.” 

“I just did a little research. Found some maps from the time of the occupation, some even earlier than that, and marked down likely locations by marking where the disappearances were being reported. I won’t lie to you, this wasn’t my first stop.” 

“Still, that’s impressive.” Tristayne carefully didn’t ask the questions that he really wanted to - where were you born? What was the date of your birth? Why do you look exactly like my friend? Instead he followed her lead, helping her find and open more secret entrances, finding their way back out of dead ends, evading traps, of which there were many. It was easier said than done. The place was a labyrinth, and any time they thought they were finally making headway the house had other plans. The demon of course did throw things at them from time to time, and Viorica threw up a shield to protect them both with the reflexes and skill of an experienced battlemage. 

If Tristayne had needed more proof that Viorica was not his friend Avia, this was enough to convince him for good. Viorica had all the magical talent that Avia had lacked, as well as confidence in her ability. But even the strongest and most confident mages had their limits, and Viorica was beginning to reach hers. He practically had to beg her to sit down, in a large and airy library that held as many plants as boks. She sank down into a chaise, her gown poofing out around her. 

“You’re pushing yourself too hard. You know that’s dangerous with a demon nearby,” he chided, but not unkindly.

“I had lyrium potions in my pack,” she admitted. “But like you I appear to have had all my things taken away.” 

Tristayne sighed. “Then it really is important that we find them.” 

She answered with a sigh of her own. “I hate that you’re right.” 

The library was enormous, two stories with a grand staircase, and very well lit even though, like every other room they had been in, the windows were sealed shut. Tristayne had begun to suspect many weren’t even real, and that they could be trapped in the basement for all they knew. He did his best to investigate, but it was just too much ground to cover on his own, and his stomach was growling again. 

“How long do you think we’ve been trapped here?” he asked, perusing the bookshelves near where she was sitting. The spines were all unmarked. 

“Hours? Days? I don’t know.” 

“The demon could just starve us to death, trapped in here like rats. It would certainly explain how so many people have disappeared.”

“A demon of hunger might be interested in that.” 

“No, hunger demons don’t have the patience for this kind of torture, surprisingly. They’re more into putting you in a big room full of food that turns into dust the second you touch it. Labyrinths and puzzles not so much. Based on what you told me about the history of this place, I think it’s probably envy.”

“Then we are DEFINITELY going to need to find that lyrium,” Viorica replied, groaning. She paused for a moment, then said: “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No, it doesn’t grow uncontrollably on my chest.” 

“What?” 

“Usually when people ask me that their follow up has something to do with my beard. Or lack thereof,” Tristayne answered, and Viorica laughed. She had a good laugh, deep but musical. It made him have to hold back his own grin in response. 

“No, I don’t care about your beard. I want to know why you decided to become a templar.”

“Do you want to know the public reason or the private one?”

“Both.” 

“My entire family was killed by darkspawn at the start of the last Blight. They ran a caravan from Orzammar to Denerim and Val Royeaux. That year they decided to venture farther south than we usually did and it put us smack in the middle of the Korcari Wilds right as Ostagar fell. They slaughtered everyone. It was pure chance I survived at all, my mother hid me away in one of the wagons and I was never found. But templars found me, took me north, put me in the care of the Chantry. Since we traveled so much I had never really got to know many templars, but to a child I was struck by their shiny armour, the respect they got in every village we stopped in, how they tried to help as many people as they could. They were heroes, especially to a 10 year old. I wanted to be like them, to be filled with so much purpose, to be empowered to do what was right. And I felt like if I could serve it would pay back the kindness they had shown me.” 

“You thought it glorious to lock mages up and play at being jailors?” 

“I didn’t really know about that part then. And I didn’t truly understand it until I got assigned to a Circle.” 

“I see,” Viorica said, an edge to her voice. “I take it that’s the public reason? What’s the private one?”

“Because I wanted to prove that I could, that a dwarf could. So many people did not want me to be part of the Order. I had to be twice as good as any other recruit to even get through training. And once they found out that not having a connection to the Fade could actually be an asset when hunting demons and abominations, it felt good to prove my worth. Every single person who didn’t want me there had to admit they were wrong.” 

“But you said yourself you’re not really part of the Order anymore, so why keep doing it?”

“Are you telling me, as an Inquisition agent, that if demons started pouring into the world and you had the skills to do something about it, you wouldn’t?” 

“Touche.” 

“And I do feel a duty to the common people, that templars broke just as much as mages did when we rebelled, and that I owe it to them to do something when I can, just like those templars did for me after my parents died. It makes me feel like maybe I was saved for a reason.” 

“I have to say, that’s not what I was expecting,” Viorica finally said in reply, after taking a moment to digest what he said. 

“And you? Why did you join the Inquisition?” 

Viorica looked away. “Guilt, mostly,” she answered.

“Guilt?” 

“I was born in Ferelden, grew up in a Chantry orphanage like you, though I had been there since I was a baby. When I was 7 my magic manifested, and I was shipped to Kirkwall Circle.”

Tristayne nearly gasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I escaped from that den of snakes when I was 15. Joined the Mage Underground. I thought we were fighting for liberation and justice. And then one of our own destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry.” 

“Maker’s mercy,” he breathed. 

“I thought I had seen plenty of horrible things but that...there were innocent people in there. Children. Servants.” Her voice broke a little. “And he did it in our name, but never consulted the rest of us once. I never in a million years would have agreed to such a thing, no matter how angry I was. All that we had been fighting for was gone in an instant, the Mage Underground was over. I was so angry that I ran from Kirkwall. I’m ashamed to say I was little more than a bandit for a while.” Some of her hair had come free of her braid, and fell into her face, obscuring her eyes like a shadow. Tristayne wanted to comfort her, hold her in his arms even though he barely knew her. He didn’t think it would be welcome. So he stayed where he was, sitting on the floor with his back brace against the bookshelf he had been perusing minutes before. 

“You don’t have to keep going, if you don’t want to,” Tristayne said softly. 

“No. I want to, though I think you can guess what happened next.” 

“The sky started falling.”

Viorica nodded. “When I heard about the Inquisition I saw it as my shot. A chance to make things right, make up for my mistakes. And the Inquisition accepted me. Gave me a purpose.” She laughed a little “So I guess we aren’t really that different after all.” 

“I think we’re both just people. Complicated and flawed.” 

“You want to hear something really silly? Part of the reason I took the post in Ferelden was to try and find out if I still have any family here.” 

Tristayne froze. It couldn’t be possible, and yet it was the only thing that made sense. Avia too had been given up the Chantry as a baby, and given to the Circle at 7. There was no better time to ask the questions that had been at the back of his throat since they met. “Viorica, do you know when you were born?” 

“The 10th of Bloomingtide, 9:19 Dragon.” It was the same as Avia’s. “Why are you asking me this?” 

“I...think I knew your sister. Your twin sister.” 

Viorica looked at him with utter shock. “That’s why you looked at me like I was a ghost when you first saw me. Why you thought I was a demon.” 

“Yes.” 

“Was she a templar?” 

“No.” 

“A mage?” 

Tristayne wasn’t sure how to answer that question, but Viorica noted his silence, and what it could mean. “She was Tranquil,” she whispered. 

“It was her choice. They didn’t force people in the Ferelden Circle.” 

“No, they just make you feel like a monster until you feel like you have no other choice.” She was standing now, and the air crackled with her fury. 

“I begged her not to! But she had made up her mind. All I could do was support her choice.” 

“Are you telling me you stood there and watched as they mutilated her!?” 

Tristayne couldn’t bring himself to answer, and again she interpreted that as the answer. “Stay away from me!” she yelled, and hitched her skirts high and started to run. There was a click somewhere in the room, and he heard the large double doors into the library on the floor below swing open. Viorica ran for them, heedless of the danger, too upset to think straight. 

“Viorica, wait!” he called out after her, and started running himself. He heard the sound of the demon laughing all around him as he ran down the hallway, as its plan finally bore fruit. Tristayne cursed under his breath as Viorica disappeared from his view, and he ran as fast as he was able. 

Suddenly another set of double doors opened before him, and he was hit with the stench of death. The dwarf nearly collided into Viorica, who had ceased her flight. They had been hered into a ballroom, and all around them danced undead, dressed in the tatters of fine garments. A set of undead musicians played a waltz slightly off key, and a buffet of rotten food lined the back wall. Above it all, on a second floor balcony that appeared to have no access from this room, stood the demon. It bore the face of a human man in his early 50s, but Tristayne knew better. 

“Welcome to my party,” it said with a slight Orlesian accent. “I was beginning to grow impatient with how long it took you to join us.” 

It gestured with its arms, and Tristayne found himself no longer in control of his body. Viorica too was now under its control. The demon made them face each other and pushed them together, placing Tristayne’s left hand on her waist and the right in her hand, and once it was satisfied with the position of their bodies, it began to spin them around in a waltz. It was awkward with their height difference, but Tristayne was unable to break free. Viorica looked ready to vomit. 

“Hey,” Tristayne said gently. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on my face.” She obeyed, reluctantly, her face tear stained and red. 

“I had hoped when I initially found you and saw you had memories of a girl with exactly the same face that you would kill her and then go mad once you realized you had harmed an innocent person, but this is much more interesting,” the demon monologue from its perch above the dance floor. “A templar and a amge, who just happens to be the long lost twin sister of his dearest friend and first love. It’s like something out of a storybook. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.” The monster laughed. 

“He still hasn’t told you everything, Viorica,” the demon continued. “He was quite in love with her, you know. Imagined doing all sort of depraved things to her, though his honor kept him from doing anything outside of those imaginings. Fashioned himself quite the little protector of the Tranquil just to be close to her.” 

“Viorica, it’s just trying to get into your head,” Tristayne pleased, as he saw the doubt in her eyes.” 

“Oh Ser Tristayne, don’t go about denying it. You’ve thought them about this one too. I know all the basest thoughts worming around in that head of yours. For all your noble intentions you are no better than any other man.” 

Tristayne could feel the heat on his face and the back of his neck. “I never said I was, demon!” he yelled ineffectually, trying not to gag on the stench of corpseflesh this invited into his mouth. 

The demon ignored him. “Not only did he stand by and watch her become Tranquil, he also watched her die.” 

Viorica looked at him with such sadness and betrayal that it broke his heart. He couldn’t deny this. It was his fault she was dead, that they were all dead. He couldn’t keep the weight of it from his face any longer. Viorica, ever perceptive, saw that weight, processed it, and squared her shoulders. 

“If we get through this, I promise to tell you whatever you want to know,” Tristayne promised, and she nodded. 

As suddenly as they started to dance, Tristayne felt a surge of power from his partner, and they stopped. He nearly fell over as his hands were freed from their placement on her body, but Viorica reached out to steady him. Then she turned to face the demon, determination bright in her eyes. “I’ve had quite enough of your jabbering, demon,” she said, readying a palm of fire. She threw it at the demon, but it called up a shield and the spell dissipated against it. 

“Oh boo,” the demon said with a pout, and halted the music and the dancing undead around them. “I was hoping to get much more amusement from this petty drama before I had to kill you. Such a shame. You are both such very fine specimens of mortality. I promise to keep your corpses as beautiful as possible.” 

Tristayne anticipated the undead being turned upon them then, and reached ineffectually for an axe that was not there. The undead did begin to move towards them, pressing the dwarf and mage so close together they had to stand back to back, moaning horribly all the while, but they did not attack. He was just about to ask Viorica if she had and ideas when the floor suddenly gave way beneath them, and they both tumbled into darkness.


	2. Part Two

When the Ferelden Circle tower finally fell, Tristayne headed straight for the enchantment workshop. It was easier said than done when the entire tower was in open revolt, and when he finally got there, he found the door had been bolted shut. Fear rising in his throat, he pounded on the door. “Avia! It’s Tristayne! Please open the door!” 

It swung open at his name, and the templar bolted it behind him. Avia stood there, a handful of other Tranquil behind her, still holding their tools and entirely unconcerned. “Who told you to lock the door?” He asked, heading directly to the cache of supplies he had stored here since news of the vote in Cumberland reached Ferelden mere days before. 

“Enchanter Brona did,” Avia replied in a signature Tranquil monotone. “She told us she would be back.” 

“How long ago was that?” 

“Two hours and five minutes ago, Ser Tristayne,” said Aviral, one of the newer Tranquil.   
“Where are Petyr and Lyla?” The dwarf asked, noting two of their number were missing. 

“Transcribing lectures for senior enchanters, I believe,” Avia answered. Tristayne suppressed the urge to curse. There was no way he could make it to the upper floors and back again and not risk losing everyone. He said a silent prayer for their souls. “All right, everyone, I”m going to need you to stop what you’re doing and come with me.” 

“But I am in the middle of a commission for the Arl of Gwaren,” Dougall, one of the older Tranquil in his early fifties, said. 

“It’s all right,” Tristayne lied. “The Knight-Commander told me the deadline for that piece has been extended.” He could tell that Avia had caught the lie, but she said nothing.

“If the Knight-Commander says so…”

“Give us some time to tidy up the mess,” Petal, an elven woman, said. “The senior enchanters will be cross if we leave the workspace untidy.” 

“Don’t worry about that, someone will be along to take care of it for you,” Tristayne brought out a ring of keys and used it to open a large door in the back of the workshop. It led into a back storage area that was typically only accessible to senior templars. Even senior enchanters did not have access.

It also led to a secret exit that had once been used by the Templars in the Storm Age, but had since fallen out of use and common knowledge. It had been a complete accident that Tristayne even knew about it, when he stumbled upon an old schematic of the tower in the library when he had been looking for something else. 

Tristayne hurried the Tranquil in, and prayed to the Maker that his plan would work and that they would be safe. But importantly, that she would be safe. He closed the door behind them and bolted it as well, saying goodbye to the only life he had known for nearly a decade. 

***  
Tristayne came to slowly, his head pounding and a heavy weight lying on top of his chest, making it hard to breathe. As he came back to himself, he realized the weight was Viorica. He also realized that both of their fine suits of clothes were gone, and they were left wearing nothing but their underthings. He became painfully aware of how little cloth there remained between them. 

Ears burning, he gently shifted the mage into a more comfortable position for him. There wasn’t very far to move her, however, for the cell they were trapped in was barely large enough for one person, much less two, even if one of them was a dwarf. This left Viorica pressed up against his side. She was breathing softly, he could feel it against his shoulder, so at least he didn’t have to worry about whether or not she was still alive. 

Soon Tristayne was glad for the contact, as the cell was as cold as a winter morning. Maybe it was a winter morning out there in the real world. He had no way of knowing. He lay there for a time, thinking about what they should do next. Get out of this cell, obviously, but after that he had no idea. He had no doubt they were dealing with an envy demon, not after it had appeared to them in the guise of Gaston Vetraisse. They were rare, and powerful, and this one had clearly been at its gruesome work for quite some time. They were at a gross disadvantage here, even if they did manage to get out of the cell. 

Viorica began to stir next to him, and she made a small groaning noise as she did so. Her head must hurt as much as his did. “Are you all right?” Tristayne asked softly as her eyelids fluttered opened, her face close enough to his that he felt them move against his cheek. “Anything broken?” 

She was groggy only a moment before snapping to attention. She didn’t get up, but he could feel her assessing her surroundings, every muscle in her body taut. She didn’t relax until she knew there was no immediate danger. It was the awakening of someone who was used to being on their guard. “No, I’m...guessing you probably broke my fall,” she replied. “Your head, it’s bleeding,” she said, and gently touched his forehead. He felt her call up her magic and the pain eased. 

“Shouldn’t you be preserving that?” Tristayne asked. She had propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. Her braid had come nearly completely undone in their fall, and it tickled his chest. Her hands had idly started trailing their way down his bare chest, and traced along his many scars there. “I don’t think you need to add to your collection,” she answered, a strange look on her face. “Besides, I need you with a clear head. Clear as a templar head can get anyway.” She said this last part in a rush, and quickly drew her hands away. 

Viorica then stood carefully, but still barely managed to not step on him in the small space. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and stretched like she had just woken from a refreshing nap and had not fallen down a trap door into a powerful demon’s dungeon. In her underclothes no less. Tristayne dusted himself off and joined her in standing, resisting the urge to cover himself with his hands. He was entirely too old for that no matter how unused to being undressed in front of other people he was. 

“You can’t seriously tell me you have a plan already,” he said, clearing his throat to hide his discomfort. 

“Keep up, Ser Templar,” Viorica replied with a crooked grin. 

“How often does this happen to you?” 

“This exact situation, with the demon? Not often. But jailbreaks, these I can handle. Now keep an eye out I need to concentrate.” She closed her eyes and called upon her power, placing one hand on the backplate of the lock to their cell, and started tapping her fingers against it in a pattern he couldn’t discern. Then the lock clicked, and Viorica opened the door. 

“You can pick a lock with magic?” Tristayne asked, impressed. “I didn’t think that was even possible.” 

“Exactly. It’s not easy, and you still have to know how to pick a lock the regular way to even begin to understand how to use the spell, but it made me unbelievably popular in the Mage Underground. And the Inquisition. And...many other places.” 

“Probably best if I don’t know. But impressive.” 

“There’s...something else I should probably tell you before we continue,” Viorica said, pausing partway through the cell door. 

“Oh?” Tristayne replied, frowning but trying to keep his tone neutral. 

“I didn’t come here for the demon. Or at least, that’s not my primary purpose here.” Tristayne folded his arms, unsure of whether or not he was going to like where this was going. “There’s reportedly an elven artifact here. Vetraisse was something of a collector. The Inquisitor wants it. Badly. And it’s supposed to be my priority over anything else.” 

“Well, if you want my help getting out of here, I’m going to need your help with this demon.” 

“Of course. I’ll do what I can. But the thing is, this artifact is in a vault, and I think we’re close.” 

“How on earth would you know that?” 

“I can...hear it.” 

Tristayne was fully scowling now. “How do you know that’s not just another trick the demon is playing? Or another, totally different demon? You know that’s the sign of a fade touched artifact, and it’s never good.”

“Of course I know that, don’t be patronizing.” He felt himself blush, momentarily ashamed of himself. “It’s important I find this, Ser Templar. More important than you can know. That’s really all I can tell you. You have to trust me.” 

Tristayne sighed and ran his hand through his thick wavy hair, as he often did when he had to mull something over. Viorica gave him as much time and space to think as she could, though he could feel the nervous energy practically vibrating off her the entire time. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll help with the artifact.” 

Relief flooded the mage’s face, and he saw a glimpse of how much her secret task had been weighing on her. But she quickly composed herself and became razor focused on the next steps of the task at hand. “This way,” she said, calling up another ball of veilfire as they ventured out into the dark. He let her lead the way, and she did so with confidence, as if she were following a map in her mind. Maybe she was. He wouldn’t put anything past her at this point. 

They were turning another dark corner when Tristayne suddenly heard something, and he signaled Viorica to stop. He could hear voices. Not the haunting moans of the undead, but the hushed tones of living people whispering urgently. “I don’t think we’re the only prisoners down here,” he said, and he headed towards the voices. 

“Ser Templar, wait! It could be a trap!” Viorica grabbed his shoulder. He couldn’t deny it. But if the demon still had any of the missing people left alive, he had to help them. 

“Let’s take this cautiously then,” Tristayne replied, and urged her to move behind him, forgetting that he had no weapons, armour, or even pants. Viorica rolled her eyes and readied a ball of fire to toss over his head. They followed the sound to another room of cells, much bigger than the ones they had been dumped in. About eight or nine people of mixed genders and races were trapped in one, dressed in rags but otherwise clean and healthy looking. One of them, a fair haired human man, was trying to pick the lock and not having much luck with it. 

“Hurry, we don’t have much time before those things come back!” A dark skinned elven woman whispered to him. “You said you were good at this!” 

The man had a pained look on his face when he replied, “Usually I’m on the other side!” 

Tristayne and Viorica exchanged a look and she clenched her first shut to extinguish her ball of flame. They stepped into the room together and the sudden movement caused the man to drop his lockpick. It rolled out of reach and everyone in the cells gasped at once. Tristayne held up his hands to show he wasn’t armed. Not that he had anywhere to hide them. 

He heard wolf whistles from the cells and could practically feel Viorica smirking next to him. “Well this is a new tactic, demon,” the elven woman who had clearly asserted herself as the leader of this little group, said, looking him up and down appreciatively. “But no matter how pretty a package you put on it, we’re not buying.” 

“We’re not demons,” Tristayne said, and when it came out more high pitched than he intended, he cleared his throat and repeated himself. 

Viorica sighed, walked over to where their makeshift lockpick had fallen, and scratched him with it on the shoulder. The pick appeared to be made out of a chipped pick of stone from the floor, painstakingly worn down into something long and pointed enough to pick a lock. It must have taken them days to fashion. It was sharp enough to make him bleed, and he hissed at the unexpected bite of pain. Viorica tried not to laugh at him as she cut her own skin without making a noise. 

The prisoners looked at each other, apprehension on their faces. It was clear they no longer knew how to trust their own senses. Contact with demons did that to a person,, if you lived long enough. If the demon let you live long enough. “Say we do believe you,” the elf said. “What exactly is your plan? We’ve seen those things. We know there must be more of them than there are us.” 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Tristayne admitted. “But I’ve had templar training, my friend is a mage, and I can’t just leave you here to die. It doesn’t seem like you want that either.” 

“Your friend there looks less sure about us.” The dwarf looked to Viorica and she did look less sure. She caught his eyes and sighed. “I guess we’re doing this. But I think everyone needs to cut themselves first so we can make sure we’re all people.” 

“Done. Gladly.” The elven woman said, and Tristayne handed her the lockpick. She scratched herself and passed it around to the group. Tristayne felt a tension he didn’t realize he was holding loosen in his shoulders as everyone bled and held their mortal forms. Once everyone was free, the woman stuck out her hand. “Cerie Littlehorn. I’ve got some good news for you, templar. I think I know where the undead stashed your gear.” 

***  
It turned out Cerie did know where their gear was. As she explained it, every so often they would see a few undead scuffling around the dungeons. Sometimes they brought new prisoners to their cell. Sometimes they took some away. Very occasionally they brought food. And sometimes they came down carrying assorted weapons, clothing, and armour. Cerie had been down there long enough, and was observant enough, to guess at where they had been taking these things. They were in a room piled high with such items, so many it made Tristayne’s skin crawl. Some looked so old they had to have been from before the demon had even been here and the house’s master was still alive. This was a place of horror long before the demon appeared. He shivered. The wild stories about this house no doubt had been true, and the demon continued the tradition in an attempt to be more like the human whose form it had appropriated. He said a quick prayer to the Maker in his mind for all the poor souls these objects represented. 

Luckily Tristayne did not have to look long for his things, and Viorica didn’t either, as they were the manor’s most recent “guests” and therefore their things were on top of the pile. He flinched a little at how carelessly they had been tossed there, but his armour looked no worse for wear and the blade of his axe remained sharp. It was enough to get the job done, and certainly better than having nothing. The rough linen shirt and trousers that usually wore as his first layer were nowhere to be found so he sighed and started with his quilted gambeson before trapping on his faded templar cuirass, spaulders, gauntlets, greaves and boots. His shield however, seemed to be missing. He felt a brief flare of panic, and started pawing through the pile closest to him. 

“What’s the matter?” Viorica asked beside him. He had been intently not looking at her as she changed, as she had only turned her back to him partway. He saw a flash of pale skin as she pulled a long side slit tunic of violet and white over her head. He felt his cheeks redden and was grateful for the low light and the fact the other prisoners were occupied with other things to give them the illusion of privacy. “My shield. It’s not here.” 

“So? There are plenty of others here. I’m sure there must be something that will suit your needs.” She moved closer to him and while her tunic was cut to the knee, it had also been slit to the hip to allow for a greater range of motion. She had slung black leather leggings over one shoulder but made no move to put them on. From Tristayne’s vantage point there was more to see than she probably realized. He tried to keep his focus on anything else. 

“It’s not just any shield, it’s a templar shield with all its enchantments and fit to my height. It also has...sentimental value. I’ve had it since I took my vows.” 

“Wait, do you mean this?” Viorica held up a square piece of metal incredulously, well cared for but had been dented and reshaped so many times that the templar sigil it had originally been stamped with was near faded away. It still glowed faintly with enchantments against all elemental magic. He had come a long way with this shield, through demons and rebellions and the end of the world. He would be devastated if he lost it. He took it from Viorica gently and with reverence. He’d recently replaced the leather strap you held it with, and the dwarf was relieved that nothing had happened to it in the damp, for he had paid for a slightly higher quality leather than he could actually afford and was technically still paying for it. The smith normally wouldn’t even allow a payment plan, but he knew about the nest of fury demons that Tristayne had taken care of in Denerim’s market district, and the man had wanted to show his appreciation.

It fit in his hand perfectly, and Tristayne felt a sense of peace and determination come over him, like a piece of himself had been found. “It must be sentimental, because I have to say, this is the shabbiest templar kit I’ve ever seen,” Viorica remarked, tugging her legging on with surprising one handed grace. Her gear, in comparison, was well used but high quality, with the exception of her staff, which looked like nothing more than a shapely, gnarled piece of wood, easily explained away as a walking stick if the need arose, but to Tristayne’s more astute eye clearly made of coveted sylvanwood. Retrieving elven artifacts for the Inquisitor clearly paid well. 

The neckline of her tunic was cut so that the tops of her shoulders were bare, and she arranged her braid over one of them. The violet shade contrasted nicely with her dark hair and eyes. It was a simple though stylish look, and it suited her better than the gown he had first seen her in, though that too had looked lovely on her. This garb felt more like her, and it was apparent she felt more comfortable in it. 

Tristayne caught himself staring and looked away. “Avia made this shield,” he said quietly. Viorica’s eyes widened in surprise. “She had figured out a way to enchant weapons and armour in a way that increased the durability of the object as well as strengthening the power and durability of the enchantment. This is unusual for Tranquil, but she was always experimenting, finding ways to be better at her craft. She stole my shield one night when I was sleeping, and enchanted it with her new method. I was so mad at first, but it’s been years and I haven’t needed to replace it. If she was still here who knows what she could have accomplished?”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“You didn’t know. No hard feelings.” He then turned to the rest of the group. “We’re not going to get out of here unless we all work together,” he said. “To that end, I think we should all arm ourselves. There are plenty of weapons here. If you’re not sure what to choose, come to me and I will help you.” 

Cerie, the blond human who had tried to pick their cell lock who was named Everald, and a very large and muscular elf named Taras all immediately stepped forward to pick a weapon, and knew exactly what they wanted to choose. Cerie grabbed a pair of daggers and strapped them to her hips like they belonged there. Cerie had mentioned that the three had been guards on a merchant caravan before being captured by the demons, so he was not terribly surprised. The rest of the group were less sure. They were mostly farm labourers, or youths from a nearby village named Pearsonvale. Despite the events of the last few years these were people who had no idea what to do with a weapon. 

One of the younger captives, Mercia, an elf who had been an apprentice bard (but not in the Orlesian sense), stepped forward. “I’m a fair hand with a bow, ser, though I only ever used it much for hunting rabbits,” she said tentatively. Tristayne helped the girl pick out a bow that hadn’t been rotted away by the damp too badly. He also gave her a dagger. “We may be fighting in close quarters and you still want to be able to defend yourself,” he explained, and the girl, impossibly young, nodded with wide round eyes. 

The awkwardness of being the first to step forward now over, the rest of the group now approached. He tried to give them simple weapons that require little training to wield, axes and spears mostly, and when Cerie stepped forward with two crossbows and bolts, he gave them to a couple of the labourers who said they had experience with bows. All three caravan guards stepped up to help show their new comrades the proper way to wield their weapons, and managed to even find a few health potions. 

It wasn’t enough, none of it was, but it would have to suffice. He prayed to Andraste just in case. And though he had not done so in well over a decade, he also sent a quick one to the Ancestors as well. They were going to need all the help they could get. 

***  
Cerie and the others didn’t like it when Tristayne and Viorica explained they wouldn’t be trying to find the way out of the dungeon right away. All they could do was explain that they needed their trust, that the only way they stood a chance of getting out at all was if they worked together. As they began to realize they were not trapped in an ordinary house after they evaded their first trap, but rather a labyrinthine horror show that looked like a house, they ceased their protestations. Tristayne felt nothing but relief. The templar was no stranger to getting groups of scared folk to work together, especially during the Rift Crisis, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

To her credit, Viorica became even more focused when it came to finding this vault, which was exactly what the group needed to keep going. Tristayne felt himself start to get dizzy from so many twists and turns in the dark, though blessedly they found fewer traps than they had encountered upstairs. Because the builder of the house didn’t expect anyone to escape or because they had been triggered already by others, Tristayne did not care to dwell upon. He nearly walked right into the mage when she stopped suddenly in front of him, and Cerie nearly tripped over him in turn. He grabbed her wrist to help steady her, and though it was dark he caught a flash of blue on her dark skin. A tattoo, in the shape of a shard of raw lyrium. Only worn by members of the Carta, specifically those who were part of their lyrium smuggling operations. They locked eyes a moment, and she saw that he had seen the tattoo, and comprehended what it meant. She hurriedly covered the tattoo with her sleeve before anyone else noticed. Tristayne frowned, but held his tongue, and instead focused on what had made Viorica stop. 

They stood in front of a giant round door made of brass, clearly of dwarven design if not craftsmanship. It was, without question, the vault they were looking for, and it was closed fast. “Well shit,” he heard Viorica mutter, and he asked her what was wrong. “It’s a great barrier door,” she replied. “They’re supposed to be impenetrable.” 

Tristayne took a torch from one of the kids and moved closer to the door, and started inspecting the metal carefully. “I don’t see a smith’s maker’s mark anywhere on here.” 

“So?”

“So, if a dwarven smith crafted this, either from the surface or Orzammar, it would have one.” 

“Couldn’t it be on the other side of the door?” Cerie said reasonably. 

“It would be on both sides. A work this impressive, they want to make sure you know who crafted it.” 

“So what are you saying?” Viorica asked. 

“It’s a rare dwarven smith who would be capable of crafting a great barrier door in this age. Even then, it probably would be no more than a copy. If a human smith made this, there is no way this thing is without its flaws. I doubt it’s truly impenetrable at all.” 

Viorica stepped forward and put her hand on the door, closing her eyes and drawing upon her magic. After a moment she pulled away, her face lit with a smith. “Oh it’s even better than that. It’s a facade. It’s just an ordinary vault meant to look like a great barrier door! Fucking Orlesians!” She placed her hand on the door again, and Tristayne heard a crack, then a creaking sound as the vault door swung open. 

The smell of musty air hit his nose, and he heard awed murmurs from behind him. The vault was filled with the type of things most people would go their entire life without seeing. Gold and jewels weren’t the main showstoppers here, and instead it was filled with priceless art, ancient artifacts from multiple races of Thedas, and magical instruments. It was the plunder of decades of empire, and here it had stayed, abandoned in the Ferelden wilderness for decades. Viorica walked straight into the vault, heedless of the other treasure in there, and after some searching, plucked a small black orb, about the size of an apple, from an ornate golden stand. Aside from the stand there didn’t appear to be anything special about it. It was smooth and polished and perfectly round, but Viorica handled it with great delicacy and placed it in a velvet pouch that she tied to the belt around her waist. 

“Is that it?” Tristayne asked.

“Not quite,” she replied, as her eyes took in something that had been stashed behind the display. Viorica pushed the orb’s stand and several paintings aside to reach it and grabbed what appeared to be two large leather folios. Again not remarkable aside from the ornate leather work that decorated them. Viorica placed one on the floor and unfastened the leather ties holding the folio shut, and inside were several large sheaves of paper, yellowed at the edges with age but otherwise intact. On them were complicated drawings, and Viorica smiled with triumph. “These,” she said, “are the blueprints of this demon cursed house.”

***  
Tristayne couldn’t even begin to understand much of the blueprints for the house, but luckily Cerie and Viorica did, and they quickly charted a way out that avoided as many traps as possible. He still couldn’t believe their luck, that the man who had constructed this horror actually held onto what would be their salvation, but Viorica explained it plainly - his ego simply wouldn’t allow it. Gaston Vetraisse couldn’t abide the idea that he would one day die and no one would ever know of his genius, so he held onto the proof. It was also likely why his vault was so easy to open. The templar saw no reason to argue with that. 

“We’ll get you all to safety first,” Viorica was saying to everyone over the open blueprints. “And then Tristayne and I will go take care of the demon. These blueprints have a route towards where it’s holing itself up. 

“Has all that magic addled your brain!?” Cerie replied angrily. “You two can’t take on a demon alone.” Everald and Taras nodded resolutely at this remark. 

“I can’t ask you to come with us,” Tristayne said. 

“You’re not asking. We’re volunteering. Besides,” she said, pulling out a leather satchel he had not noticed she’d been carrying before now. “I happened to find this apothecary bag. It’s got health and lyrium potions, and I don’t think you can succeed without it.” 

The two farm labourers, Kitt and Ewald, also stepped forward. “Not sure how much help you need, but you have our support too.” 

The dwarf shook his head. “No, we need to keep the group small. Fewer people for the demon to try to manipulate. Besides, someone needs to see everyone else home. I’m entrusting that to you.” He clasped the much taller human man on the forearm. 

“What!? You can’t leave us behind!” said Armen, the oldest of the youths from Pearsonvale at 17. 

“I need to know everyone who can be safe is, if we’re going to do this,” Tristayne replied in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “I’m going to need all of my focus, and I can’t do that if I’m worried about you.” 

“We’re a liability, you mean.” 

Viorica sighed loudly. “Look, Ser Templar isn’t going to say it, but I will - yes, you will be a liability if you come. I’m willing to let you take down some undead if push comes to shove, but not one of the rarest, most powerful types of demons that exists. You don’t have the training, and you don’t have the willpower. I barely want to bring these three, but at least they know which end of a sword is pointy. No offense,” she added, for the benefit of the caravan guards. 

“Uh, none taken?” Cerie said. 

“Some taken,” Everald corrected. 

“Anyways,” Viorica continued. “That is what we are up against. It would be wildly irresponsible to bring you when you could be safely on your way home to your friends and family, whom I assume you want to see again.” 

The younger members of their party sighed, but seemed to back down. “At least let us wait for you,” said Ewald. “We can wait a few hours, at a reasonable distance, and if you don’t come back we’ll go.” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The way out is a hypothetical at this point, and there could be a moat of undead outside for all we know. Let’s focus on one thing at a time,” Viorica answered.

“She’s right. If this blueprint is to be believed, we’ve still got a lot of obstacles to overcome before we can start making solid plans for going home,” Cerie agreed. “All we’re doing now is wasting time arguing. We can revisit this later.” 

No one could disagree with that, and they moved out, with a little bit more optimism and energy than they had before. Tristayne sidled up next to Viorica, who was leading the way, the most comprehensive blueprints rolled up and tucked into a backpack she had found earlier. “Rousing speech,” he said, trying to hide a smile. 

Oh, shut it, helmhead,” she replied caustically, but when he looked up she was smiling too. 

***  
It turned out Cerie had been underestimating the obstacles they would have to overcome to truly escape the manor. Even with the blueprints the place remained a hazardous puzzle to be solved, and a lot of the traps were still working. It turned out that Everald had more of an affinity for locating and disarming traps than he did for lockpicking and it saved several of their lives, including Tristayne’s, more than once. They had no real sense of time, and their only water was that which Viorica could summon with her magic, either as ice or liquid water. Their new companions had the good sense to squirrel away some of the food that the demon had given them in anticipation of the lockpick scheme being a success, so they didn’t completely starve. But hunger still gnawed at their bellies, and they only had enough to quiet it briefly, especially since they now had two more people to share with. They were tired, hungry, inexperienced, and Tristayne had not been responsible for such a large party in quite a long time. Frankly, it was terrifying. But he couldn’t let that terror show, not for a second.

And the demon was not about to let them escape so easily either. They ran into several undead, though not as many as the templar was expecting, just enough to slow them down. It was continuing to toy with them, though for what purpose Tristayne was not quite sure. It could be to wear them down before finally killing them, or simply for its own amusement. Knowing demons as he did it was probably both. Still, he refused to give up hope, to let himself and these people succumb to death. And Viorica...he couldn’t be responsible for her death too. He owed that to her.

She and Cerie had taken to leading the party with Everald checking for traps, while Tristayne, Taras, and the two human farmhands held the rear. For the most part he couldn’t see her, as they trudged one by one through narrow corridors, but every once in a while he saw the flash of her magic, or the sway of her long black braid, or heard the sound of her husky voice as she discussed something with Cerie. For all she’d been reluctant to free these people initially, she threw herself into the task of keeping them all alive. Avia had been like that too - when she committed to something, there was no stopping her from completing her task. It was part of the reason why she had been so upset with her lack of magical power, and her lack of willpower. She worked hard, for years, to be better at it. But there was no changing the paltry gifts the Maker had granted her. Viorica had been granted them instead and she called upon the elements with the ease of the naturally gifted. It was like he had stepped into a different timeline, where circumstances had been different. But now was not the time to dwell on such things, and Tristayne forced himself to focus. 

They wouldn’t have succeeded at all without the help of Cerie and her companions also throwing in their talent and skills. Cerie ws a blur of knives as she fought, and she could cut down undead faster than he could; she was also as quick witted as Viorica, and the two women made a formidable team. Everald was of course indispensable with his affinity for traps, but he too knew his way around a sword, though he mentioned his weapon of choice was usually a bow. Taras used a great axe, and was skilled enough to wield it in such close quarters without harming his own allies, which was a rare talent. The less experienced in their group overcame their lack of skill and acquitted themselves better than Tristayne had expected, and even managed to take down some undead on their own. He was proud of them, and they beamed when he told them so. 

Slowly, much too slowly, they made progress. When they found a set of stairs that the blueprints said would lead them out of the dungeon, Tristayne felt a relief more palpable than any he’d felt before. When their energy lagged, they sipped at a potion of restoration that Cerie had found. The potion was old, and not particularly potent, but it was better than nothing. When that ran out, they slept, taking shifts for an hour at a time, afraid of what might happen if they dallied too long or let down their guard. 

The rooms upstairs were in worse shape than the ones Tristayne and Viorica had seen before - they were damp and musty and showed their age and neglect. It seemed the demon only cared about maintaining appearances in certain parts of the house, which meant what he saw before was probably more illusion than reality. It also meant the demon’s power was not endless, and that it was trying to conserve it. This could be either a very good or a very bad thing, and Tristayne wouldn’t know which until they were in the same room with the thing. It was not a comforting line of thought. 

Suddenly the people in front of him stopped walking, and Tristayne again found himself trying to avoid getting tangled up in someone’s legs. Viorica and Cerie had called for a halt, and the dwarf pushed his way forward so he could see what was happening better. He was briefly worried something was wrong, but the two women looked exhausted but calm. He felt a flicker of hope. Viorica met his eyes and gave him a tired smile. He felt a flicker of something else in his heart and hoped she could not see his blush. 

“We have good news,” the mage said to the group. “If our directions have been right, the grand foyer is on the other side of this door.”

“That said,” Cerie continued. “We need to be prepared for anything. Disappointment, undead, abominations, an entire room of cheese…” Viorica raised an eyebrow at the elf, and Tristayne’s stomach rumbled at the mention of cheese. So did several of the others if the templar’s ears did not deceive him. “What, it’s happened before! Um anyway, what I mean is, we need to go about this carefully, and we think it’s best that we have the most experienced fighters through first, and clear the room.” 

Tristayne spoke up. “Under normal circumstances, I think that would be a solid plan. But if I had a silver for every time a demon locked a door behind me and sicced lesser demons or abominations on me, I probably would be sitting comfortably in a non-demon infested manor of my own.” 

“No you wouldn’t,” Viorica replied with a smirk. 

“Maybe not, but at least I would have a comfortable manor of my own to relax in after!” Everyone laughed, and a little bit of the tension in the room dissipated. 

“You’re right, though. I think we need to keep our current formation, though Taras should probably come up with us. You don’t mind covering our backs, Ser Templar?” 

“Of course not,” he replied though there was a small part of him that wanted to remain close to her side. He reminded that part that the mage was more than capable of handling herself, and would probably freeze him into a ball of ice if she knew he thought otherwise even for a second. 

He assumed his position at the back of the group, checking everyone’s weapons and armour if they had any. So far their fear remained in good shape. It was a small blessing. He clapped Kitt and Ewald on their forearms. “We’ve got this, friends. Just follow my lead - hold back if I tell you to, keep your guard up.” They nodded. “And you three,” he continued, addressing the Pearsons and the apprentice bard. “No heroics.” Armen frowned, but nodded. It had become clear the young man hated feeling helpless, but so far he had been sensible and hadn’t taken on more than he could handle. Tristayne had noticed he had good instincts and quick reflexes, but it wasn’t enough to make up for experience and martial training. 

“Is everyone ready?” Viorica asked, and everyone gave the affirmative. Tristayne heard the creak of the door as she pushed it open, and a rush of stale air once again hit his face. He heard Cerie ask Everald if he saw any traps and a pause while the man verified that. After what felt like hours but was surely only minutes, Cerie finally called out to the rest of the party to start moving forward. 

It was then the demon decided to make its move. The grand foyer was in terrible condition, draperies faded and torn, dust thick on the grand staircase that was the focal point of the room. Old leaves were scattered across the floor though the doors and windows were the only part still intact. Tristayne was the last one through the door, and he wasn’t even all the way through when it slammed shut, sending him sprawling into the backs of Ewald’s knees. What little light there was suddenly extinguished, and the dwarf could hear (and smell) undead nearby. He sprang back to his feet as quickly as his body was able. His hop screamed from landing on it awkwardly, but he knew how to work past the pain. 

There was a flash as Viorica activated a spell, sending a ball of veilfire hovering above them, casting the room in a ghostly green light. The room, which as the name suggested was not small, was quickly filling up with undead. They would soon be completely surrounded, and then consumed. “To me!” Viorica yelled, running towards the door. Tristayne helped everyone who was still with him, urging the young people to stay behind him. Those with bows rushed forward to join him, sending volleys of arrows into the oncoming mass of undead bodies. It took a few down, but not enough. They didn’t have enough bows, or enough experienced archers, but still Tristayne swapped out axe for crossbow. Balls of fire and ice erupted from behind him, as Viorica tried to open the main door and help with undead at the same time. He could hear banging, the sounds of weapons trying to force it open, curses as all of these attempts failed. And still, the monsters moved closer, stepping over the bodies of the fallen, relentless in their task of destruction. 

There was praying and crying behind him as Tristayne ran out of crossbow bolts. He tossed the bow aside and took up his axe and shield again. Glancing briefly from side to side he saw the others did the same. They too were out of ammunition. He heard a very colourful and creative new curse word as Viorica pushed him aside. “Everyone get back!” she yelled, as she planted her staff and started mouthing the words to a spell. 

“What are you doing!?” Tristayne yelled back. 

“Just get back and you’ll get caught in it too!” He could feel the magical energy she was drawing on charge the air and knew enough about magic to know what that meant. He stood back, not that there was far to go. 

Viorica’s hair lifted and magic shimmered around her, then she thrust her free hand forward and hit the encroaching undead with a burst of force magic so strong it shook the entire building. He heard the squelch and thud of undead flying across the room and hitting walls, bannisters, furniture. Even Tristayne the others were thrust back hard against the door, and they weren’t even the targets of the spell. The templar was no stranger to force spells, any enchanter who saw combat knew at least one, but he’d never seen it deployed with such power before. 

Still a few undead rose and kept coming towards them. So Viorica cast the spell again. And again. Her face greyed using so much raw power at once, but still she continued. Tristayne yelled at her to stop, that she was going to overextend herself, but she kept going until the undead ranks were thinned considerably. The templar ordered everyone with a weapon forward to take out any stragglers, and he ran for Viorica just in time to catch her as she fell. As Cerie thrust her dagger into the brain of the last undead, Tristayne felt something he hadn’t felt in days, - the caress of a crisp late fall breeze on his face. The exit to the manor had opened on its own behind him. 

***  
Viorica did not awaken until after Tristayne and Cerie had convinced Kitt and Ewald to take the youths back to Personvale, a discussion that took longer than he thought it would. They were good people, and they didn’t want to leave their comrades behind in such a state - exhausted, hungry, and in Viorica’s case, unconscious. But he was eventually able to convince them it was the right thing to do. 

It was a shockingly bright and beautiful day outside, and the sunlight and brightness of the fall leaves hurt his eyes after so long in dim light. He would have loved to join them in finally leaving this Maker-cursed place, but the demon who had done this to them was still at large, and it wouldn’t take the destruction of what had to be all of the undead currently under its control lightly. It would retaliate, and soon. Another reason he had to make sure the others got away safely. He considered briefly sending Viorica with them, but she would probably come right back to murder him before the demon did. 

When the mage woke her face went white and she threw up into the grass. They had moved her outside into the fresh air, while Everald and Taras kept vigil at the door to the manor. Based on smell alone, nothing was coming out of there any time soon, but Tristayne saw no need not to be overcautious. Cerie immediately handed the other woman a waterskin. There had been a river nearby, the water fresh and clean, and the Pearsonvale kids had sacrificed their scavenged leather armour so Cerie could fashion a couple of makeshift waterskins. They still leaked, but not enough to be completely useless. 

Viorica drank deeply, then swished some around in her mouth and spat it out. “We’re outside,” she said, blinking. 

“The door opened once the last undead was put down for good,” Cerie explained. 

“Wait a minute, if we’re outside, did you finish off the demon without me!?” The human woman pushed herself upright, fueled entirely by her anger. Tristayne tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she slapped it away. He wasn’t wearing his gauntlets and it stung more than he would have thought from a woman who had been unconscious only moments ago. 

“Of course we didn’t,” Cerie replied reasonably. “But it’s very uh, rank in there.” 

“Then we’re wasting time,” Viorica said resolutely. “Cerie, give me the lyrium.” She held out a hand. The elf flicked her eyes towards Tristayne in a gesture of uncertainty. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Tristayne said in what he hoped was a gentle tone. “You drew on enough power to cause ripples in the Veil back there.” 

“I’ll be fine. I know what my own limits are. This needs to end now. That thing already had me mad, but now I’m just pissed off, and that’s when I do my best work. Cerie, the lyrium please.”   
The elven woman reached into her satchel and handed a bottle of the sparkling blue liquid to her. Viorica drank it nearly as fast as she had the water, wiping some from her chin as she stood. Her face went pale and she wobbled slightly, but she stayed upright. She had the same look on her face that Avia did the day she told him she was going to undergo the Rite of Tranquility, and he knew like he did then that there would be no changing her mind. 

Tristayne started pulling his gauntlets back on. “Then I guess we better figure out our gameplan.” 

***  
It was not a great gameplan, it was barely even a good one. They were tired, though less hungry and thirsty than they had been after foraging a little bit and finding some nuts and berries near the mansion. Most of them had meager weapons and apothecary supplies. Their mage was holding it together with lyrium and sheer force of will. But sometimes barely even good was all you had, and you learned how to make the most of it. It helped when the only other alternative was death. 

What they did have were the blueprints to the entire house, and two people who could read them. What they did have was Tristayne’s experience with demons. What they had were three more allies than they had started with. And what they did have was one pissed off, powerful mage. 

He could practically feel the crackle of her magic in the air beating in time with the fury that was evident in the set of her entire body. Even her bones were mad. It spoke of her self control that she didn’t literally crackle, as sometimes happened even when experienced enchanters were in heightened states of emotion. Half of his duties at the Circle as a young templar has been putting out fires accidentally started by overwrought apprentices. The drapes there were made of silk not just because it was a wealthy enough institution to afford it, but because silk was fire resistant. 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked Viorica in a hushed tone. 

“Why, afraid I’m about to break and you’ll be forced to kill me, Ser Templar?” she replied sharply, and he flinched. Of course it made sense that she’d take it that way. 

“I’m more concerned you’ll collapse before we get anywhere near this damned demon!”

Viorica made a face like she regretted her harsh words, but before she could bring together the words for an apology Cerie cut between them and mouthed “not right now” at Tristayne, and tried to engage the other woman on a different topic. That’s when the shades decided to attack. 

Like most shades, they weren’t much of a challenge. But it meant the demon knew they were coming and had regained some of its strength back. They had to be even more careful going forward. Luckily, it turned out that some of that caution was unwarranted. They encountered no more shades going forward, though of course the house still contained its own, non-magical dangers. 

Tristayne cursed Gaston Vetraisse a thousand ways and kind of hoped the demon was still wearing the man’s face for the satisfaction it would give him to go at it with his axe. They found the remains of more than one person during their navigations of the house and there was little Tristayne could do for them but say a small prayer and be grateful when they didn’t reanimate. They even found a pit with the skeleton of a bear in it, that had probably starved to death after the mansion had been abandoned and no longer had any...guests. Even the burly Taras had not enjoyed that little discovery. 

Finally they reached the final door, and spilled out of the secret passage they were occupying into an enormous master bedroom. Really more of a torture chamber than a bedroom, Tristayne realized, and shuddered. It looked like some of the trap floors somehow deposited people in this room, and more cells lined the back wall of the room. The Veil was thinner in this room than anywhere else in the house, and it made the hair on his arms stand on one end. 

They didn’t spot the demon at first. You rarely did. A demon loved a dramatic entrance, and the rarer and more powerful the demon, the more dramatic the entrance. After the first couple of demons, it became tiresome. “Spare us your theatrics and show yourself, demon!” Tristayne commanded. 

“Ugh, how utterly boring you templars are,” the demon said as it appeared suddenly from somewhere behind the massive four poster bed. It still maintained its human form, though it had changed its clothing into a rich black mage’s robe made of silk and velvet, trimmed with ermine. Tristayne was not terribly surprised that the demon chose to use its remaining power to keep looking human. Envy demons wanted to be mortal above all else, and especially delighted in tricking humans into thinking that is what they were. Even though it knew Tristayne and his companions knew exactly what it was, it couldn’t shake that compulsion. “You really are just all work and no play, aren’t you? To think I thought this would be a novel confrontation,” the demon continued. “No matter. If death is what you desire, I’m happy to add you to my collection, especially since it seems I now have to start over.”

“No,” Tristayne replied, brandishing his axe. “This ends today.” He heard Viorica light balls of flame behind him and the sound of metal as weapons were being drawn by the others. The demon sighed and reverted to its true form at last as it summoned several more shades to attack. The stillness that permeated the room only seconds before was now shattered, and the room erupted into the chaos of battle. 

Much as it pained Tristayne to admit this, he was almost relieved to be fighting. There were no traps here, no mazes or puzzles to be solved, no mind games to overcome. Just the simplicity of kill-or-be-killed. This he understood. This he was good at, he thought as he took down the shade attacking him, then darted towards one that was closing in on their mage. Viorica was holding her own so far, but it was still bad tactics to leave a magic user vulnerable. He bashed the shade with his shield to knock it away, as Viorica continued to pummel it with orbs of fire that he could feel sailing straight over his head. 

When the last shade fell they advanced on the demon again. It started to laugh, in a maniacal, breathless fashion. “Do you think I’ve never had to start over before, that you are the only ones to have ever gotten this far? Greater men and women than you have tried to take me down!”

“If all you have left are petty insults,” Viorica taunted, “then you must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel.” 

“Oh? You think those shades are all I have left? I haven’t begun to use my last trump card yet.” The demon reached out one long, spindly hand towards them, and Viorica was dragged across the room so quickly the others did not have any time to react. The mage tried to use her magic, but found herself unable to. She was tethered to the demon by the orb in the pouch around her waist. The demon held her by the throat with one hand. “Thank you for being so willing to take my bait. Did you really think the Eye of Mythal would be so easy to find? It hasn’t been here for decades.” Tristayne heard the woman curse venomously from where he stood across the room, surprised the foul expletives she hurled at it didn’t kill the demon on their own. 

“Now,” the demon continued, its tone light and reasonable despite the woman struggling against its grip on her. “You will take your weapons and leave this place, and never return. I will release this one once I am certain of my safety. Continue to fight me and I will kill her. I don’t need to possess her, but that could be amusing. Whatever I decide, I will not hesitate.” 

Cerie and the others looked to Tristayne. He felt like the floor was falling away from under him. Not again, he thought, Maker, please, not again.

“It’s lying, Tristayne, you know it is,” Viorica said, her voice strained but clear. The demon told her to be silent but she continued. “You can’t stop now. Whatever happens to me is my own fault. I should have...I should have known better. This isn’t on your, I absolve you of responsibility. You know what you have to do!” Her eyes pleaded, so like her sister’s, her words so much like the ones she had spoken to him the day she was killed. 

The templar felt his brain skidding to a stop, and fought against it. He was supposed to be the expert, and he felt the expectations of his other three companions heavy on his shoulders, imploring him to act. But he didn’t know what to do. Whatever he chose, she would likely die. Her telling him it was OK to let her go didn’t make the decision any easier. He felt sweat dripping down his neck, white noise overtook his ears, every second feeling like hours. He needed to do something, so he did the first thing he could think of: he reached for his axe, and threw it. 

Time slowed as it flew across the room. It should not have worked - it wasn’t a throwing axe, it wasn’t designed to be thrown, and Tristayne was not trained. But almost uncannily, it flew towards the demon like that was its true purpose, and it flew true, embedding itself deep into the shoulder of the arm that held Viorica. The demon cried out in pain and surprise as it dropped the mage. She hit the ground so hard she bounced, but did not waste a single second - whatever the demon had done to her magic was temporarily interrupted, and she created a long blade of light and stabbed it through the demon’s eye. It briefly protruded from the other side of its skull before the blade dissipated, and the demon dropped to the ground, dead. Its body dissolved into pitch black sand that scattered through the room as if blown away by the wind. Viorica collapsed back onto this sand, which partially covered her. Tristayne unfroze after a brief moment of shock and ran towards her, the others only a beat behind him. 

He pulled her out of the sand and onto his lap, brushed as much of it out of her face and hair as she could. The human woman was pale and barely conscious, but alive, though bruises in the shape of the demon’s fingers bloomed across her throat. “Are you OK? Are you OK?” he found himself babbling, and felt hot tears on his cheeks. 

“I think...I have demon in my mouth….” she replied, coughing again. Tristayne came back to his senses, and gestured for Cerie to hand him one of their waterskins. He held it to Viorica’s lips and she drank, swishing it around in her mouth before spitting it out. What came out was completely black. 

“What...just happened?” Cerie asked, but Tristayne really had no explanation. They should be dead right now, but it was like the hand of providence had reached out and ensured their success. Whatever had happened, Tristayne wasn’t about to question it. “The demon is dead,” he replied. “We need to get her out of here.” The dwarf picked Viorica up, throwing her legs over one shoulder so they wouldn’t drag on the ground, and started walking out of the manor. The others, still bewildered, had no choice but to follow him. 

Once outside, Cerie called for a halt. “We can’t just leave this place standing. Even without the demon, it’s a literal death trap.” 

“But...the vault,” Everald objected. 

“You really want to go back in there and find it again?” Cerie snapped. And so it was decided. When they finally left the Manor Vetraisse, they left it in flames.


End file.
